A Winter's Tale or Two
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness 2014 - let the mayhem begin! (Rated T for safety.)
1. Some Things Never Change

**A/N : **_Massive thanks to everyone taking part this year - I'm already really enjoying reading everybody's responses and it's barely the 2nd day! Just want to offer a quick apology for the lack of beta-ing that will take place over the next months - you have been warned!_

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><p><strong>1st December : From silvermouse - One of the characters suddenly announce that they are going to be vegetarian from now on. How do the others react?<strong>

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><p><span>Some Things Never Change<span>

Scarcely a few weeks after Holmes's return to London, following the three years he had been presumed dead, I entered 221B to find him and Mrs Hudson engaged in what sounded like a blazing row.

_Some things never change,_ I thought wryly to myself, making my way up to the living room. I soon reached the top step and, bracing myself, I opened the door.

"Ah, Doctor Watson!" Mr Hudson exclaimed upon my entry. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes wild with anger. She gestured angrily to Holmes, who sat quite relaxed in his armchair. "Perhaps you might speak some sense into him!"

I smiled in a manner I hoped sympathetic, not particular wanting to be drawn in as mediator between the two. "What precisely is the problem?"

"Oh for heaven's sake," he muttered, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "There is no _problem _at all! I simply requested that Mrs Hudson no longer includes meat in any of my meals."

I raised my eyebrows at that. "No meat?" I asked. "Whyever not?"

"My point _precisely _Doctor," Mrs Hudson sniffed, and threw back her head haughtily before marching over to the door. "Let's see if you might convince him of his madness."

"Madness indeed," Holmes huffed, watching her exit resentfully. "Blasted woman."

"Come now old chap, she has only had a few weeks to reacquaint herself with your quixotic moods," I teased. "I must ask, though, what it is that has prompted your sudden vegetarianism?"

"In Tibet, Watson, the monks eat no meat at all," he replied sagely. "I have not told you much of my time in Lhasa, have I? It was a fascinating place, I shall have to return there one day. The head Lama was an interesting fellow..."

By the time Mrs Hudson came up with lunch - a vegetable broth, I noticed - the issue of meat had long since been dropped, replaced instead by tales of Holmes's travels abroad. I lapped them up eagerly, truly content for the first time in what felt like years.


	2. Does that look like snow to you?

**A/N : **_Here, have some whiny!Holmes and irritated!Watson to brighten up your day!__  
><em>

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><p><strong>2nd December : From Madam'zelleGiry - A disastrous foot chase with a criminal leads to an impromptu camping trip. Watson is not impressed.<strong>

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><p><span>Does that look like snow to you?<span>

"_Watson..." _Holmes whined, clutching his ankle pitifully. "This is far too painful to simply be a sprain."

"And yet sprain it is," Watson ground out between gritted teeth. For the past half an hour he had been trying, and failing, to start a fire. "Try to think of something else for a while."

Holmes sighed and leant back against a tree trunk, sticking the ankle in question far out in front of him. He crossed his arms and tilted his head upward. "I fear your efforts to produce fire may be meaningless, Watson," he said, pointing up to where grey clouds loomed ominously. "It looks like rain."

"Wonderful," Watson huffed and, at last, gave up. "What, then, should we do?"

"Hm." Holmes thought for a moment, rubbing at his ankle almost subconsciously. "Well, Mr Wheeler could not have led us too far from the path - we were pursuing him for only fifteen minutes at most."

"We should try to retrace our steps then?"

"It is already quite dark," Holmes pointed out. "Soon we shall have no hope of finding our way through a forest. And you are forgetting my ankle."

"I fear _that _would be rather impossible," Watson said dryly, chuckling at the affronted look Holmes shot him in response. The smile soon faded from his face as realisation sunk in. "So you are saying we shall have to camp out here overnight?"

"It seems our only option," Holmes replied, almost apologetic. "But we have our coats and jackets, and the ground is soft enough to- _Ah_." He swallowed, looking upward. "Tell me Watson... does that look like snow to you?"

Watson put his head in his hands and groaned.


	3. VendettaWho Ate All The Pies!

**A/N : **_I apologise for how very strange this one is. Holmes employs multiple swear words for no apparent reason (well there's one joke that requires it, but really it's quite an inexplicable occurrence) and... yeah. It's just really, really weird. Sorry. Please don't read if you're easily disgusted or don't like pee-jokes. Or swearing.  
>Dedicated to Poseidon, cos I think he may be the only one to like it and to Catherine Spark who always encourages my weird sense of humour.<br>_

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><p><strong>3rd December : From Poseidon - God of the Seas - Mycroft enlists Holmes's help tracking down Santa.<strong>

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><p><span>VendettaWho Ate All The Pies?!

When we were summoned to Whitehall one frosty morning in the middle of December, it was down to me to persuade Holmes to attend the meeting his brother had arranged.

"It could be something of national importance!" I protested, in response to the flat refusal he had just delivered. "Surely you should at least hear what he has to say?"

Holmes released a long suffering sigh and went to pick up his violin from where he had left it on the sofa. "For fuck's sake," he said, plucking at the strings viciously. "I already _know _what he has to say Watson. My brother's largest flaw is that he's a tenacious arsehole who can't let anything go."

"Holmes please!" I exclaimed, wincing at the discordant reverberations of his instrument. "Your language is growing ruder and ruder - what if Mrs Hudson were about to enter with our lunch?"

"Mrs Hudson?" Holmes let loose a bark of derisive laughter and tossed the violin aside, for which I was immensely grateful. He had taken to forgoing the use of the bow a lot lately. "Please Watson. It wasn't _me_ the Irregulars learnt shit and bugger from."

"Shit and bugger aren't nearly as bad as the f-word..." I mumbled, but my words had no real heat to them. I looked to the door, hoping that Mrs Hudson was about to enter with our lunch - no such luck. "Anyway I thought you said Mycroft's largest flaw was his laziness?"

"That too," Holmes replied dismissively. "The wanker."

I ignored this last comment, as I had to so many, and read out from the letter

Mycroft Holmes had sent by delivery boy. "It says here he needs help "to settle the score"..." Holmes snorted at that. "Do you know what he's talking about?"

"Of course I bloody do. Father Christmas, of course."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"FATHER CHRISTMAS!" he bellowed, and I winced. He sighed, seeing my confusion. "When we were younger Father Christmas came and he ate all the mince pies and Mycroft's never forgiven him because as I said, he's a bit of a wanker who holds on to his emotions whilst also being too lazy to do a single _fucking _thing to help it."

"Gosh," I said, after I had taken a moment to process everything. "So you're saying he still believes in Father Christmas?"

"Of course," said Holmes. "Why wouldn't he?"

"Well because... because he's not real," I said, astounded Holmes would even have to ask. He raised an eyebrow and the ghost of a grin passed over his face. "He's- he's not is he? Is he? _Holmes?"_

"Oh Watson," Holmes said, shaking his head with a fond and slightly-pitying smile. "You really are a bit of a fucktard, aren't you? Of _course _he's fucking real!"

My mouth dropped open in utter shock. Holmes clapped me bracingly on the shoulder. "Well at least now you know the truth. I suppose you thought your parents were just spouting a load of bollocks when you were younger then, hm?"

But I wasn't listening. This couldn't be true, could it? Surely Holmes was just tricking me, Mycroft couldn't have-

_Mycroft. _Of course. If he wanted to get revenge on St Nick, then I would help - I would lure Father Christmas here (if he existed) and then I could see for myself that he existed (if he existed).

It was the perfect plan and had absolutely no flaws whatsoever.

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><p>"Holmes I need your Christmas list."<p>

"No fucking chance." He turned a page in the newspaper and scanned it swiftly. "I haven't written one since I was 8 years old. I shit you not Watson!" he exclaimed angrily as I rolled my eyes. "I was 8 years old and Father Christmas didn't get me the chess set I asked for. It isn't only Mycroft who's been hurt in all this you know."

"Holmes _please!" _I begged. "I need _you _to write it because you're a true believer - he won't come on Christmas Eve if it's _me _who writes the list!" I smiled persuasively at him. "Now what do you say?"

"Piss off Watson!" he bellowed, throwing aside his newspaper and storming to his bedroom.

I sighed - now what? Then an idea struck me and, smiling, I began to scribble down a list.

The plan was going swimmingly.

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><p>"He won't show up," Holmes grumbled, sitting far too close to the edge of the roof for my liking. If he died then this really would be the worst Christmas Eve ever. "And we've already been waiting here for hours- Mycroft for fuck's sake!" He slapped his brother, who had been gnawing at his scarf. "Would you stop?"<p>

"I'm just nervous," Mycroft muttered defensively, letting the now-soiled end of his winter garment drop back onto his chest with a moist _thwop!_ "I've waited years for this. Now it's finally time to give Father Christmas a stern talking to. I've dreamt and dreamt of this day and finally-"

"Shh!" I hushed him, pointing to the distant skyline where a small, glittering speck was fast approaching. "It's the sleigh!"

"Shit man," said Holmes, releasing a long, low whistle. "That's some sleigh."

Shining, with a million, multi-coloured fairylights and pulled along by 8 sleek

reindeer, it was indeed, "some sleigh". Well no it wasn't really, it was really just one sleigh, but I decided that Holmes was likely to swear at me if I pointed this out to him. He always swears at me.

"At last," said Mycroft, his eyes blazing as they followed the sleigh's course across the sky. "Santa Claus is about to get what's coming to him."

The sleigh alighted, and from it stepped a red-clad, white bearded, rather rotund gentleman, who beheld the three of us coldy.

"So-ho-ho!" he declared, his belly shaking like a bowlful of jelly. "It would seem the past has finally caught up with me. I must admit I was rather puzzled by your Christmas list, Sherlock."

"My what-the-fuck now?"

I gulped nervously.

"Yes!" Father Christmas pulled out an envelope - the same I had sent to the North Pole just days previously - and removed the list I had written from it. "Yes, here we go - "Piss of Watson" - seems to me you could have got _that_-" he looked over to me, and his eyes flicked briefly to my nether regions, before settling again on Holmes "-easily enough yourself."

"Piss of..?" Holmes's eyes widened with realisation and he turned to me angrily. "WATSON!"

I winced and cringed away, as Santa nodded. "Yes, that's right." He turned to Mycroft. "Now then. Mycroft, I know you still harbour some resentment-"

"You ATE MY PIES!" Mycroft bellowed, disrupting a crowd of pigeons from their perch a few rooftops away. Then he dropped to his knees and began to sob. "_My pies..!_"

"I was trying to save you from my own fate," Santa said, dropping to his own knees and speaking earnestly to Mycroft. "That - of obesity." He sighed sorrowfully. "But I can see I have failed - you're fatter than _me_, and I'm certainly no lamppost."

"I'm not _fat!_" Mycroft yelped indignantly. "It's the puppy fat of youth!"

"Well you've been a puppy for a fucking long time then," Holmes muttered, and I elbowed him in the ribs. "Ow!"

Santa chuckled, shaking his head at our antics. "Oh Sherlock, you really should watch your language - why do you think you didn't get that chess set you wanted when you were a lad?"

Holmes glared daggers at him. "You're a cold hearted twat-wanker, Santa. SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER!"

He plunged his hand into my coat pocket and pulled out - a candy cane.

"What- what the _fuck!_" He turned it over, glaring at me. "This isn't your revolver!"

"I started hiding my revolver after last Christmas, remember?" I reminded him, taking back the candy cane and stuffing it back into my pocket. "With the eggnog and the morphine?"

"Ah yes, now I recall." He grinned at the memory. "That was a bloody good Christmas wasn't it?"

"Yes," I agreed, smiling in spite of myself. "although it was a shame about that delivery boy."

"Oh he regained the use of his legs in time," Holmes said, waving a hand dismissively. Then his eyes drifted over to Santa and Mycroft, who were now tussling together on the ground, engaged in a very slow and clumsy battle.

"Mycroft you are _going _on the naughty list-"

"No _you _are going on the naughty list-!"

The fight continued in this vein for a while and we watched it for a few moments in uncomfortable silence.

"Who do you wager will win?" I asked Holmes eagerly, always up for a gamble.

"Mycroft will eat St Nick, but in the end it will be death that defeats them both," was Holmes's bored reply.

"OW!"

"See, he's already bitten his arm," Holmes said with a gesture to the battle. What he said was true. "Can we go inside now? I'm fucking freezing."

"I am a little cold myself," I conceded. "Let's go in for a few minutes then come back out when we think one of them has triumphed over the other."

"TAKE THAT FATHER CHRISTMAS!" shrieked Mycroft, pummeling his red-suited flab with the fervour of a crazed man. "Who ate all the pies eh? YOU DID! NOW GIVE THEM BACK AND I WILL LET YOU FREE!"

"I don't have them," Santa groaned, "I can only give you new pies, or pie coupons."

"That is _not _good enough!" Mycroft bellowed. "Give me back the originals! You can surely clone them?!"

"Mycroft." Holmes said, firmly. "That is _not_ how science works."

"It's not science it's medical science," countered Mycroft, "there's a difference!"

"That's not how medical science works either," I disagreed. I was rather disheartened by this point... when I had only just started to believe in him, Father Christmas was already a bloody, beaten pulp. "Just take the pie coupons."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes viciously at me. "I've never liked you Watson."

I gasped, hardly noticing as Holmes pulled out the candy cane again from my pocket and broke it against the side of the roof, before thrusting the now-jagged end towards Mycroft's gelatinous throat.

"Take it back, you twisted son of a bitch," he hissed, jabbing it into one of his many chins. "Or I swear to fucking-!"

"If I'm a son of a bitch you're a son of a bitch!" Mycroft screeched back, truly demonstrating that he was indeed the more intelligent Holmes brother. "You're so-" But he broke off, for he had seen that Santa had taken advantage of the change in situation and was making his escape. "Sherlock! After him! He's very slowly getting away!"

"Let him," said Holmes, watching Santa's red-trousered behind wobble away indifferently. "He won't be back here any time soon. And neither will you."

"Fine," Mycroft spat. "But I will have my revenge. Some day... somehow..."

"See you in hell, Ho-Ho-Holmeses..!" Father Christmas called back to us, having finally managed to seat himself in his sleigh. "And I _do_ hope you enjoy your present Sherlock!"

"What prese- oh Watson," he said, shaking his head and looking at my crotch, which was now wet and dripping. "That is fucking disgusting."

"Sorry Holmes," I apologised with a shrug and a smirk. "I guess I was just - _taking the piss!"_

Both Holmeses threw back their heads and we all chortled merrily to ourselves. We were content.


	4. Snowballs Are A Dangerous Weapon

**4th December : From Catherine Spark - One of the Irregulars catapults something through the windowpane of 221B**

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><p><span>Snowballs Are A Dangerous Weapon<span>

When it has occasion to snow in our dear city, I feel almost as though I am catching a glimpse of what Watson was like in childhood - he certainly spent enough time roasting in army uniform and desert heat to justify intense relief in the extreme cold. And I must admit there is something rather pleasing in the effect produced on him by what seems to most such a commonplace occurrence.

"Come now, Holmes!" he asked of me this morning, after the Irregulars had begged him to join their snowball fight. "Surely you don't want to miss out on all the fun!?"

I shook my head. "No thank you Watson. I, along with the saner majority of London, far prefer the warmth of a lit fireplace to the chill of the city streets."

He shrugged, grinning, and headed outside where he was greeted with a raucous cheer that could be heard even through the closed windows of our living room. Soon I suppose the game must have been well underway. I say "must have" because after half an hour, during which time I smoked my pipe and read the agony columns in the paper at a leisurely pace, there was an almighty _SMASH! _and the window (thankfully on the other side of the room) shattered inwards.

I sighed. One of the Irregulars must have-

"DOCTOR WATSON!"

... or perhaps not.

I hurried over, picking my way carefully over the remnants of smashed window and now-melting snowball, to peer outside. Watson stood alone in the street, the Irregulars having apparently scattered at Mrs Hudson's furious bellow. She now stood nearly nose to nose with Watson, her glare something terrible to behold.

I chuckled and left them to it - "miss out on all the fun" indeed...


	5. Watson and the Ripper

**A/N : **_Dedicated to my sister, given this date is her birthday (sorry it's so grim). I also apologise for the quality of this piece - I should be asleep._

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><p><strong>5th December : From Madam'zelleGiry - Jack the Ripper<strong>

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><p><span>Watson and the Ripper<span>

...

Sleep is impossible and so I write to tire myself out. It was the only thing that worked after Maiwand, when my dreams were filled with bloodshed and gunfire and I hope that it will work now. Every time I close my eyes I hear rushing water, see the sheer cliff face of Reichenbach and picture my friend plummeting to his death...

Mary helps more than I think even she knows, but I have left her to sleep rather than wake her with my troubles. She has not been well and I fear bronchitis. I pray it isn't pneumonia or anything worse. She has always deserved more than me, a half-crippled and now grieving husband, and I doubt I could make do without her.

There was a murder in Buck's Row last week, a woman named Mary Ann Nicholls. It sounds a horrifying case and I cannot help but think Holmes left us when we needed him most. I haven't spoken with Lestrade or any other Yard inspector for many weeks now and I suspect that they are all consumed with the case, perhaps thinking the same as I am. I only hope they have learnt something from Holmes's methods and that there will be an end to this soon.

It appears Mary has awoken, for she is calling me back to bed.

...

Mary's condition has worsened. I have called in various specialist doctors and the like, but so far there has been very little progress. I fear she will not last much longer.

...

Lestrade visited today, to offer his condolences. We drank tea together for a while and it was all too easy to spot the dark circles under his eyes which indicated too many late nights. Soon talk turned to the Hanbury murder - it bears all the hallmarks of that in Whitechapel and rumours are beginning to spread, amplified by the press, that it may be the same killer. Lestrade asked me to fill in as police surgeon, if I have the time.

These days I have only too much time.

...

Three murders now, each more depraved than the last. The police are getting desperate, but the majority of the Scotland Yarders refuse to listen to me. Lestrade has been taken off the case and I know that soon they will discontinue my work as police surgeon.

If only Holmes were here! They would surely listen to him, for his reputation alone, but it seems that I have no such privileges amongst the police force. I have embarked upon my own investigation, using the techniques Holmes once taught me, for I cannot let this monster go unpunished and, worse, go on continuing to kill.

...

I saw Wiggins today for the first time in nearly a year. He looked well, and has got a job as the butcher's delivery boy. He asked me how I was keeping and I told him I was investigating the recent double murder (it seems this so called "Jack the Ripper" is growing more bloodthirsty, for the bodies of the two women - Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes - were discovered only 45 minutes apart). He asked if there were anything he could do, any information I wanted from any of the Irregulars, reminding me that they are at my disposal. I answered no and said farewell. I do not wish to drag anyone else into this sordid business - it is my burden and mine alone.

...

Another woman dead, but this one is the Ripper's last, for Holmes's techniques have not failed me and Scotland Yard will arrest him within the day. I will see to it personally, that he hangs within the month. There are some in this world who cannot be forgiven.

...

Those blasted Yarders! I regret having ever defending them against Holmes's criticisms, for they will not listen to me! They tell me my evidence is at best circumstantial, at worst purely ridiculous. Clearly the art of deduction is something believed only if you are a consulting detective - never mind his flatmate and biographer.

I feel that there is no option left to me but to take matters into my own hands.

.

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><p>"Ah yes, the Ripper murders," Holmes remarked one evening in Baker Street and, had his back not been turned as he reached for his violin case, he might have seen Watson stiffen. "I read a little of them upon my return, as I recall - an interesting case, but one I was unable to solve from so many countries distant." He sighed and looked out of the window, watching those in the street below carry out their business. It was dusk. "The minds of some are too disfigured to have clear motive or pattern to their killings... I fear that it is a mystery, sadly, which we will never know the answer too."<p>

Watson didn't say anything and, after a pensive moment, Holmes turned to him, his brow creased in sudden thought.

"You weren't involved in the police investigation, I suppose, Watson?"

"No," Watson replied, joining his friend at the window. "I'm afraid not."


	6. Elope

**A/N : **_Apologies, especially to mrspencil..._

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><p><strong>6th December : From Lucillia - Elopement<strong>

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><p><span>Elope<span>

Mrs Hudson declared, "I'd like to elope!"

Mr Holmes looked scared, "I have to say nope!"

She shook her head, "I meant with the Pope!"

"I wonder," said Holmes, "If your prospects hold scope?"

"They don't have to," said she, "I just want a quick grope!"

(In the corner, Watson was doing some dope)


	7. A House Is Not A Home

**A/N :** _It is very late and this is not beta read. Apologies for the nonsensical nature of this story - it makes sense to me now, but I cannot help wonder if it will tomorrow morning..._

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><p><strong>7th December : From I'm Nova - In vino veritas (drunk people tell the truth)<strong>

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><p><span>A House Is Not A Home<span>

"It is awfully confusing you know," Watson slurred. "This "home" business."

When he had returned from the Scotland Yard New Year celebrations, more intoxicated than I had seen him before or after my three year's absence, he had been euphoric. Singing "Auld Lang Syne" with a hearty Scottish burr, and outright laughing at Mrs Hudson's loud and impassioned demands that he desist, it had taken a great deal of effort on my part to persuade him up the stairs and into the living room. Since then, however, his mood had turned melancholy. He sat, half-slumped in his armchair, his eyes unfocused and his head occasionally listing to one side.

"""Home" business"?"

"Mm." He shifted himself against the armrest. "'Kensington. Baker Street."

I smiled in spite of myself. "Watson, dear fellow, you are making very little sense..."

"Really Holmes," he huffed, apparently disgusted at my inability to understand him. "And you, a master of dedu- ded... well a detective at any rate! All I am trying to say is that home... well _home- _is... is..." He thought for a few moments, a look of utmost concentration on his face. "Home is _much _better than not, isn't it?"

"True," I replied softly, recalling the loneliness of the past three years. "Very true... but what were you saying, of Baker Street and Kensington, Watson?"

"That is my _point!_" he declared gesturing at nothing in particular with his arm, perhaps to emphasise his "point". "When Mary was alive it was the Kensington house and before that it was Baker Street. But where is it now?"

"Where is... what?"

"_Home..._" He settled back down into his armchair, expression sorrowful. "Well your guess is as good as mine..."

"And why is that?" I asked cautiously, beginning to see there was more to this conversation than just drunken whimsy. "You mean to say you're unhappy in your Kensington home?"

"_Not _home," he grumbled. "Didn't we establish that? 'S too empty and- and _big_. Much too big." He shook his head forcefully. "Much, much too big. And quiet. Much, much too quiet." He yawned, and his eyes slid closed. "Goodnight, Holmes..."

"Goodnight, Watson," I answered, voice distant as I recalled three years of aching loneliness. Perhaps it was not only me who had suffered in such a way. "Sleep well."


	8. A Cunning Plan

**8th December : From W. Y. Traveller - Santa's hat**

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><p><span>A Cunning Plan<span>

"Hm... most fascinating," Holmes murmured, turning the red, fur-trimmed hat over and examining it intently.

"The Irregulars discovered it on the porch step early this morning," Watson told him. "What can you deduce of the owner?"

From behind the living room doorway, there was a hastily stifled giggle followed by an angry "_shh!"_ Holmes and Watson shared a glance, accompanied by a conspiratorial grin.

"Well," said Holmes, a little louder then necessary. "It seems the owner of this hat has a bushy white beard, a talent for toymaking, a taste for mince pies and," here he paused in mock horror, "I dare say he keeps several reindeer as pets!"

"Good heavens Holmes!" cried Watson, in a convincing tone of surprise. "Surely it couldn't be...?"

"Well _someone _has to put the presents under the tree Watson," Holmes pointed out. "Though I confess it is highly unusual - what on earth would dear old St Nick be doing in _London_ of all places?"

Watson shook his head. "It is a puzzle indeed, Holmes. I can only hope Wiggins and his gang are on their best behaviour, for if St Nick is still lingering in London-"

Here, Watson was interrupted by a collective gasp, followed immediately by the scrambling of several pairs of feet and the open and close of the front door. Holmes moved swiftly to the window, chortling.

"I do believe your plan worked, Watson," he said, watching the Irregulars disperse. "Their search for Father Christmas should keep the Irregulars well occupied, leaving us with ample time to buy their Christmas presents."


	9. A Study In Time Travel

**A/N : **_As the majority of you will no doubt notice, a great deal of this is lifted or tweaked from _The Empty House. _I have not only stolen from Arthur Conan Doyle either - many of you may well notice a certain Time Lord featured in this story... Enjoy, and apologies for the abrupt ending..._

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><p><strong>9th December : From Lucillia - Watson meets another doctor.<strong>

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><p><span>A Study In Time Travel<span>

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and took a step forward.

"Holmes?" I enquired hoarsely, reaching a hand out and gripping him by the sleeve. "Is it really you?"

His grasped my hand firmly, as though to convince me he were not some ghost or spirit, and nodded. "Yes, Watson and I owe you a thousand apologies. The Doctor assured me it would be a matter of weeks." He cast a critical glance over me. "Evidently "years" would have been a more accurate estimate..."

I was utterly confused by this point and wondered if perhaps I was dreaming. "Holmes I don't understand. How is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss? What doctor do you speak of?"

His answer was prevented by a deafening, wheezy sort of groan which rose and fell in pitch and volume. I could not place the sound, but Holmes's eyes widened in recognition and he turned away from me, as though looking at something. Then I began to see it too - a dim shape, forming in the corner of my study. I felt my mouth drop as, before me, a large blue box materialised. Then it appears I fainted for the first and last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand and beside him was a gentlemen I did not recognise, with short black hair. He wore a leather jacket, and an apologetic grin.

"Holmes," I croaked, straightening in my chair and taking in the towering blue box behind them which now occupied almost a quarter of my study. "Have I gone insane?"

"I assure you Watson, I have been doubting myself in much the same way," Holmes replied and I was not greatly reassured by the sentiment. He gestured to the man beside him. "This is the Doctor. I believe he will be able to explain..."

The Doctor waved. "Hello!" His accent suggested he was from the North.


	10. The Gift of the Magi

**A/N : **'_Tis sickly sweet, but I don't care._

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><p><strong>10th December : From Wordwielder - Watson and Mary's first Christmas together.<strong>

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><p><span>The Gift of the Magi<span>

It was during the three day lead-up to Christmas that I received a case that necessitated a visit to the local Pawnbrokers. The case itself was hardly trying, but offered me the distraction I craved increasingly now Watson was ensconced happily in married life. It was only with his absence that I began to appreciate his presence in Baker Street, but I did not begrudge him his happiness - I could think of none better suited for marriage than he.

Which was why, when I saw none other than his wife exiting the same pawn shop I planned to visit, I was so utterly bemused.

"Mrs Watson?"

"Mr Holmes!" She greeted me enthusiastically. "Good heavens, how wonderful it is to see you! Are you well?"

I assured her I was and once we had exchanged the usual pleasantries I asked what had brought her here.

"Oh, yes, well er-" her cheeks grew rather red, and she cleared her throat awkwardly. "I came to sell my old flute." She paused for a moment, before adding, quietly, "Don't tell John."

I frowned. I knew Watson's practice would take a few months to get off the ground entirely, but I had not realised times had grown so hard for the newlyweds.

"Mrs Watson..." I suggested in what I hoped a delicate manner, "If you and your husband are facing financial difficulties I would be perfectly willing-"

"Oh, no Mr Holmes!" she interrupted. "You misunderstand me! I am not selling my flute in order to make ends meet, but rather because I wish to buy John a new watch chain for Christmas. His old one broke and I know he places great value on his brother's heirloom... Oh you won't tell him will you? I know he would only fret that-"

I raised a hand, forestalling her explanation. "Have no fear, Mrs Watson - your secret is quite safe with me."

Her face brightened instantly. "Thank you Mr Holmes! I am ever so grateful - which reminds me! You must join John and I for Christmas lunch."

"Oh no, I wouldn't wish to impose-"

"Nonsense! We shall expect you by 3 o'clock on Christmas Day."

I waved her goodbye and entered the pawnbroker's where I perused the shelves intently for some minutes. With a sigh I admitted defeat - the object I was seeking did not seem to be here. I turned to exit, when I caught sight of a familiar face.

"Watson?"

"Holmes!" he exclaimed, his face breaking into a wide grin. "What are you doing here?"

"There was a case, not too interesting, but..." I trailed off, for I had noticed an absence of weight in his front pocket. "Watson... you haven't sold your brother's old pocket watch, have you?"

"How on earth-?" Watson began, in a tone of amazement. He shook his head with a laugh. "Your powers of deduction shall never cease to astound me. You are right of course. Now, you mustn't tell Mary-"

I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Watson..."

"-but she's needed a new case for that flute of hers for months now-"

"Watson-"

"-and it will be a few months yet before the practice is making enough that I can-"

"Watson!"

He blinked at me in surprise. "Yes?"

"Your wife-" I began, but drew short, remembering the promise I had made. _Blast. _"Er..."

"... Yes..?"

"She... er-" I cleared my throat and said, helplessly, "She invited me to Christmas dinner?"

"Oh yes, you must come Holmes," said Watson, (thankfully) distracted. "You will, won't you?"

I assured that I would in much the same way I had Mrs Watson and we made our goodbyes. I watched him as he made his way, out of the shop and past the window, no doubt to purchase a new flute case.

"Excuse me sir?" A shop assistant asked. "Are you buying, or selling?"

"Neither, I'm sorr- actually..." I said, an idea beginning to form in my mind. "Buying..."


	11. Held In High Regard

**11th December : From I'm Nova - Fire**

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><p><span>Held In High Regard<span>

Although Holmes has always called Inspector Lestrade the best of a bad lot, I did not entirely realise the regard he held him in until one chilly morning in October 1897.

"Absolutely ridiculous!" He grouched, barely even glancing my way to ascertain there was someone in the room to be ranted at. His cheeks were red from cold and he had evidently not stopped to remove his coat and scarf. "You will never guess what those blasted officials at the Yard have done now!"

"Good morning to you too, Holmes."

"They are _planning,"_ he continued, as though I had not spoken, "to fire Lestrade!"

"What?" I sat up straight in my armchair. "But Lestrade is one of their best men!"

"Precisely," he growled. "They say that he has grown too old to be in their employ... completely ridiculous!"

"Well, none of us are getting any younger," I pointed out gently. "I suppose it was only a matter of time-"

"Oh poppycock!" he cut across me. "Really Watson, I cannot have some new, fresh-faced inspectors working the same cases as I do. How will they possibly be expected to understand my methods?"

"And that is the only thing upsetting you?" I asked, watching him pace in agitation. "The thought of training up the new blood?"

"Well of course!" he snapped. "What else?"

"Nothing." I said, and hid my smile behind a newspaper. The next day I would visit Lestrade and inform him of Holmes's reaction to his departure from the Yard. "Nothing at all."


	12. No Ghosts Need Apply

**A/N : **_Went a bit crazy with this one and wrote a tonne - but it's still not finished. So I chopped and changed a _lot _in order to get something reasonable for this challenge. Hope it's alright :)_

_My laptop is also broken at the moment so am writing and posting from a tablet - sorry for typos and weird formatting..._

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><p><strong>12th December : From Catherine Spark - Holmes is visited by three ghosts, but not the Past, Present or Future. Which three?<strong>

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><p><span>No Ghosts Need Apply<span>

I.

Sherlock Holmes met his first ghost - a fellow with the bearing of a soldier and the hands of a surgeon - the day he moved into 221B Baker Street and, as was understable, he couldn't quite believe his eyes. He leapt to his feet and demanded that the man - _the ghost _- explain himself immediately.

"You can _see _me?" was the only, rather astonished, reply that he received.

"Of _course _I can see you!" Holmes exclaimed and if his voice was a little higher pitched than usual, well, it was only he and this apparition who would ever know. "What- what the devil-"

There had been rumours of a haunting, which was why the rooms were so cheap, but of course Holmes had never believed them_. _Approaching the ghost now, however, taking in the flickering edges and disconcerting not-quite opaqueness of his form... the evidence seemed rather conclusive.

That is most unusual," the ghost murmured. "No one has ever _seen_ me before. They've heard me on occasion, or felt the cold spots in the room, but never _seen _me."

"Who are you?" Holmes asked, his curiosity overtaking his fear now he had realised there was no immediate danger.

"My name is Doctor John H. Watson," the ghost answered cordially and went automatically for a handshake. He soon realised the futility of the gesture and let his arm drop. He smiled nervously. "My apologies. I profess I am quite unused to this sort of thing..."

Holmes was bursting with questions. "How did you die?"

Watson shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea... I remember only my name, and I suppose I was a doctor in life, but-"

"And a soldier," Holmes said, matter-of-fact. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

"But how- how on earth did you know that?!" Watson stammered. "Ever since I got here I have been- well, not exactly _dying _to know, but-"

"It was a simple deduction," Holmes said dismissively. "The train of reasoning ran, `Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly." He took in Watson's shocked expression. "You mean to say you knew none of that?"

Watson shook his head, speechless. Holmes reflected that, given he was the one who had just discovered the existence of the supernatural, it seemed rather odd that his new acquaintance was the one to be so shocked...

II.

Sherlock Holmes met his second ghost on a sunny day in spring, the following year. Since their first meeting he had formed a sort of partnership with Watson - having a sounding board to discuss his cases with was incredibly useful, although it was extremely frustrating that Watson seemed unable to venture farther than the immediate vicinity of 221B. He had tried it once, and been absent for several days, during which time Holmes wondered if he would ever return.

"Watson!" he had cried when he had awoken one morning to see his companion smiling sheepishly down at him. "Are you-?" He had been about to say "alright", but given the man was dead, it seemed something of an impertinent question. "What happened?"

"Damned if I know. One moment I was at the edge of Baker Street and the next...Well. Let's just say I do not fancy trying it again any time soon."

Holmes let the matter drop, but a few months later, he was walking through a traders'

market when he happened upon an item that caught his eye. In a small, cardboard box, addressed to one "Mary Morstan" sat a very large and lustrous pearl. It was neither it's perfect shape or brilliant shine that caught his attention, however, but the sight of a bored looking young woman stood beside the stall. He noted her sweet and amiable expression, her blonde hair and large blue eyes and, most especially, the translucent glow that seemed to emanate from her.

"Good day," he murmured softly, so no one would think he was talking to thin air.

It took her a moment, but when she realised he was addressing her, her eyes widened in shock. She asked the very same thing Watson had over a year ago. "You can see me?!"

"I can. I can also tell that in life you were a governess and as a child you spent time in India, most likely to visit a relative... most likely your father was an officer of some sort. I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Why should I believe what you said about my life? How did you know me?"

" I didn't know you - I simply observed." Holmes replied. "But I cannot deduce your name - what is it?"

"Mary Morstan, of course," she said, gesturing to the box. "That pearl is mine - I am bound to it."

"What do you mean "bound to"- Oh!" Holmes cried, pieces of the puzzle beginning to slot into place. A nearby merchant cast him a wary look and he spoke quieter, "Do you know if all ghosts are bound to objects?"

"All that I've met," she answered and then smirked. "The pearl has never stayed in anyone's possession for very long - people say it's "haunted"." She chuckled. "I get to see much of the world that way and I have met around a dozen other ghosts, all of whom were forced to remain close to their objects."

Holmes thanked her and hurried away, eager to inform Watson of what he had learnt.

III.

Sherlock Holmes met his third ghost on a cold evening that December. He was on his way back to 221B following the conclusion of his latest case, a watch with the engraved initials "H.W." in the usual place of his front pocket, and Watson walking beside him.

"You really should be more careful," Watson chided, but with little heat to his reprimand, "Mrs Hudson already thinks you're insane, you don't want the Yarders to get the same idea..."

"Well it is easier said than done to remain silent when you're busy chattering away in the corner," Holmes pointed out. "And on that note it is _very _disconcerting to see you walk through Lestrade on a regular basis."

Watson sniggered. "It was worth it to see him shiver though, wasn't it?"

Holmes looked over to the ghost with the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. "You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself..."

"Holmes, wait." Watson had stopped walking, his head half cocked to the side as though listening. "Do you-"

"Mr 'Olmes, look out!"

"HOLMES!" Watson bellowed and reached towards him. Holmes felt himself moved by some invisible force, pushed backward through the air so hard that when he met the ground again his head struck pavement. For a few moments he was left unable to do anything but stare at the grey clouds in the twilit sky above, blinking as the world twisted in confusing ways around him. He was unable to focus on anything at all but the clouds, drifting above...

"Mr 'Olmes?"

He opened his eyes, which in itself was impossible given he had never closed them in the first place, and could see a face hovering above his own - it was freckled and young and after a few moments he recognised it as one of the Irregulars.

"M-Mr 'Olmes?"

"B- Benjamin, isn't it?" Holmes blinked up at the lad, his head pounding. "What on earth.. what in heaven's name happened?"

"There was a cab," Benjamin stammered, looking a few metres away where a hansom cab was overturned, the horse's body stilled and the cabman behind, miraculously unharmed. A short way away from that... was Benjamin. Or, rather - his body. "I saw it was going for you and I yelled but then- then you went flyin' out the way and it swerved and I-" Benjamin swallowed, eyes glistening with tears. "I think it got me, Mr 'Olmes- I- I'm dead."

"No," Holmes gasped, sitting up and wincing at the pain which spiked through his head. "Benjamin you can't be... if you were dead then you would be a ghost and you wouldn't remember me!"

"I am dead, Mr 'Olmes..." he whispered hoarsely, watching as the driver of the crashed cab screamed out for someone to help him. But it was an empty street and other than Holmes, it seemed no one was there. "When I woke up I- I saw myself... I tried to talk to the driver but he didn't see me. Only you can see me."

"Benjamin..."

"I can feel myself going, Mr 'Olmes," he gulped raised a fading hand. "I- I don't want to!"

Holmes reached out to the boy, his instinct to comfort, but of course that would do no good. He thought of Watson at their very first meeting, trying and failing to shake hands, and what he would do were he here.

"It seems to me, Benjamin," Holmes began shakily, "that you have two choices. Either you choose to stay, and- and remain on earth bound to one object forever with no former memories of this life or... You move on."

"Where will I go?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Holmes answered gently. "But I do know that if you choose to remain, though there is a chance you will never go there, life here will never be the same for you as what it was."

Benjamin nodded, and Holmes could see the decision he had made. His small form was nearly transparent now.

"Thank you," were the final, whispered words spoken by the spirit before it was gone entirely.

People were swarming the street now, having come in response to the cabman's cries for help, but no one had noticed Holmes, removed as he was from the wreckage of the hansom. He ignored the babble of humanity and reached into his front pocket. It was empty.


	13. Worse?

**13th December : From Madam'zelleGiry - "You could do worse..."**

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><p><span>Worse?<span>

"Are you enjoying the party, Mr Holmes?" my wife enquired innocently as he battled his way towards us. "Miss Ellis-Smythe seemed _very _pleased to meet you."

Holmes glared. "it seems you have married a woman with as wicked a wit as your own, Watson."

I chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. "Come now Holmes, you could do worse than Miss Ellis-Smythe." Here I exchanged a sidelong grin with Mary. "And she does so _adore _the stories about you in the Strand old chap-"

"_Watson,_" Holmes growled, "I do _not _think-"

"Oh, Mr Holmes!" the grating trill of Miss Ellis-Smythe brought our conversation to an abrupt halt. "Sherlock?"

"Oh dear God," Holmes gulped, with the expression of one condemned. He spared us both a hateful glance then darted back between the milling party guests and disappeared from view. Mary and I were left giggling like fools.


End file.
